 CHAPTER X. The Del Norte. For days we journey down the Del Norte, we pass through numerous villages, many of them types of Santa Fe. We cross the sequias and irrigating canals and pass along fields of bright green maize plants. We see vineyards and grand haciendas. These appear richer and more prosperous as we approach the southern part of the province, the Rio Abajo. In the distance, both east and west, we describe dark mountains rolled up against the sky. These are the twin ranges of the Rocky Mountains. Long spurs trend toward the river, and in places appear to close up the valley. They add to the expression of many a beautiful landscape that opens before us as we move onward. We see picturesque costumes in the villages and along the highways, men dressed in the checkered surrape or the striped blankets of the Navajos, conical sombreros with broad brims, caseineros of velveteen with their rows of shining castle tops and fastened at the waist by the jaunty sash. We see mangas and tomas and men wearing the sandal, as in eastern lands. On the women we observe the graceful Roboso, the short Nagua, and the embroidered Shemeset. We see rude implements of husbandry. The creaking Kerata with its block wheels, the primitive plow of the forking tree branch, scarcely scoring the soil. The horn-yoked oxen. The dode, the clumsy hoe in the hands of the peon surf. These are all objects that are new and curious to our eyes and that indicate the lowest order of agricultural knowledge. Along the roads we meet numerous Atahos in charge of their arieros. We observe the mules, small, smooth, light-limbed, and vicious. We glance at the heavy Alparejas and bright-worsted Apishamores. We notice the tight, wiry mustangs, ridden by the arieros. The high-peaked saddles and hair-bridles, the swarth faces and pointed beards of the riders, the huge spurs that tinkle at every step, the exclamations Ola, Mula, Morea, Vea. We notice all these and they tell us we are journeying in the land of the Hispano-American. Under other circumstances these objects would have interested me. At that time they appeared to me like the pictures of a panorama, or the changing scenes of a continuous dream. As such have they left their impressions on my memory. I was under the incipient delirium of fever. It was as yet only incipient, nevertheless it distorted the images around me and rendered their impressions unnatural and worrisome. My wound began to pain me afresh, and the hot sun, and the dust, and the thirst, with the miserable accommodations of New Mexican posadas, vexed me to an excess of endurance. On the fifth day after leaving Santa Fe we entered the wretched little pueblo of Parida. It was my intention to have remained there all night, but it proved a ruffian sort of place, with meager chances of comfort, and I moved on to Socorro. This is the last inhabited spot in New Mexico as you approach the terrible desert, the Hornada del Muerte. Goad had never made the journey, and at Parida I had obtained one thing that we stood in need of, a guide. He had volunteered, and as I learnt that it would be no easy task to procure one at Socorro I was feigned to take him along. He was a coarse, shaggy-looking customer, and I did not at all like his appearance. But I found, on reaching Socorro, that what I had heard was correct. No guide could be hired on any terms, so great was their dread of the Hornada and its occasional denizens, the Apaches. Socorro was alive with Indian rumours, novidades. The Indians had fallen upon an ataho near the crossing of Fra Cristobal and murdered the Ariaros to a man. The village was full of consternation at the news. The people dreaded an attack, and thought me mad, when I made known my intention of crossing the Hornada. I began to fear they would frighten my guide from his engagement, but the fellow stood out staunchly, still expressing his willingness to accompany us. Without the prospect of meeting the Apache savages, I was but ill prepared for the Hornada. The pain of my wound had increased, and I was fatigued and burning with fever. But the caravan had passed through Socorro only three days before, and I was in hopes of overtaking my old companions before they could leave El Paso. This determined me to proceed in the morning, and I made arrangements for an early start. Goad and I were awake before dawn. My attendant went out to summon the guide and saddle our animals. I remained in the house, making preparations for a cup of coffee before starting. I was assisted by the landlord of the Posada, who had risen, and was stalking about in his sorape. While thus engaged, I was startled by the voice of Goad calling from without. Von Matre, von Matre, the rascal, have him, Raneve. What do you mean, who has run away? Oh, Maasur, La Masican, with Von Mule, has Robb, and Raneve, Alonze, Maasur, Alonze. I followed the Canadian to the stable with a feeling of anxiety. My horse, but no, thank heaven, he was there. Of the mules the macho was gone. It was the one which the guide had ridden from Parida. Perhaps he is not yet off, I suggested. He may still be in the town. We sent and went in all directions to find him, but to no purpose. We were relieved at length from all doubts by the arrival of some early market men. Who had met such a man as our guide far up the river, and riding a mule at full gallop? What should we do? Follow him to Parida? No, that would be a journey for nothing. I knew that he would not be fool enough to go that way. Even if he did, it would have been a fool's errand to seek for justice there. So I determined on leaving it over until the return of the traders would enable me to find the thief and demand his punishment from the authorities. My regrets at the loss of my macho were not unmixed with a sort of gratitude to the fellow when I laid my hand upon the nose of my whimpering charger. What hindered him from taking the horse instead of the mule? It is a question I have never been able to answer to this day. I can only account for the fellow's preference for the mule on the score of downright honesty, or the most perverse stupidity. I made overtures for another guide. I applied to the boniface of Secora, but without success. He knew no mozo who would undertake the journey. Los Apaches, Los Apaches. I appealed to the peons and loiduers of the place. Los Apaches. Wherever I went I was answered with Los Apaches and a shake of the forefinger in front of the nose, a negative sign all over Mexico. It is plain goad we can get no guide. We must try this ornata without one. What do you say, voyageur? I am agree, mon madre, alons. And followed by my faithful companion, with our remaining pack-mule, I took the road that leads to the desert. That night we slept among the ruins of Valverde, and the next morning, after an early start, embarked upon the journey of death. CHAPTER XI. THE JOURNEY OF DEATH. In two hours we reached the crossing at Fra Cristobal, hear the road parts from the river and strikes into the waterless desert. We plunge through the shallow ford, coming out on the eastern bank. We fill our guajes with care, and give our animals as much as they will drink. After a short halt to refresh ourselves, we ride onward. We have not travelled far before we recognize the appropriate name of this terrible journey. Scattered along the path we see the bones of many animals. There are human bones too. That white spheroidal mass with its grinning rows and serrated sutures. That is a human skull. It lies beside the skeleton of a horse. Horse and rider have fallen together. The wolves have stripped them at the same time. They have dropped down on their thirsty track and perished in despair, although water, had they known it, was within reach of another effort. We see the skeleton of a mule, with the alpareja still buckled around it, and an old blanket flapped and tossed by many a whistling wind. Other objects that have been brought here by human aid strike the eye as we proceed. A bruised canteen, the fragments of a glass bottle, an old hat, a piece of saddlecloth, a stirrup red with rust, a broken strap, with many like symbols, are strewn along our path, speaking a melancholy language. We are still only on the border of the desert. We are fresh. How, when we have traveled over and near the opposite side, shall we leave such souvenirs? We are filled with painful forebodings, as we look across the arid waste, that stretches indefinitely before us. We do not dread the Apache. Nature herself is the enemy we fear. Taking the wagon-tracks for our guide we creep on. We grow silent, as if we were dumb. The mountains of Cristobal sink behind us, and we are almost out of sight of land. We can see the ridges of the Sierra Blanca, away to the eastward, but before us to the south the eye encounters no mark or limit. We push forward without guide or any object to indicate our course. We are soon in the midst of bewilderment. A scene of seeming enchantment springs up around us. Most towers of sand, born up by the whirl-blast, rise vertically to the sky. They move to and fro over the plain. They are yellow and luminous. The sun glistens among their floating crystals. They move slowly, but they are approaching us. I behold them with feelings of awe. I have heard of travellers lifted in their whirling vortex, and dashed back again from fearful heights. The pack-mule, frightened at the phenomenon, breaks the lasso and scampers away among the ridges. Goat has galloped in pursuit. I am alone. Nine or ten gigantic columns now appear, stalking over the plain and circling gradually around me. There is something unearthly in the sight. They resemble creatures of a phantom world. They seem endowed with demon life. Two of them approach each other. There is a short, ghastly struggle that ends in their mutual destruction. The sand is precipitated to the earth, and the dust floats off in done shapeless masses. Several have shut me within a space and are slowly closing upon me. My dog howls and barks. The horse cowers with a fright and shivers between my thighs, uttering terrified expressions. My brain reels. Strange objects appear. The fever is upon me. The laden currents clash in their wild torsion. I am twisted around and torn from my saddle. My eyes, mouth and ears are filled with dust. Sand, stones and branches strike me spitefully in the face, and I am flung with violence to the earth. I lay for a moment where I had fallen, half buried and blind. I was neither stunned nor hurt, and I began to grope around me, for as yet I could see nothing. My eyes were full of sand and pained me exceedingly. Throwing out my arms I felt for my horse. I called him by name. A low whimper answered me. I staggered towards the spot and laid my hands upon him. He was down upon his flank. I seized the bridle and he sprang up, but I could feel that he was shivering like an aspen. I stood by his head for nearly half an hour, rubbing the dust from my eyes and waiting until the Samoom might settle away. At length the atmosphere grew clearer and I could see the sky, but the sand still drifted along the ridges and I could not distinguish the surface of the plain. There were no signs of gold. I mounted and commenced riding over the plain in search of my comrade. I had no idea of what direction he had taken. I made a circuit of a mile or so, still calling his name as I went. I received no reply and could see no traces upon the ground. I rode for an hour, galloping, from ridge to ridge, but still without meeting any signs of my comrade or the mules. I pulled up in despair. I had shouted till I was faint and hoarse. I could search no longer. I was thirsty and would drink. Oh, God! My huwajahs are broken. The plaque mule has carried off the water-skin. The crushed calabash still hung upon its thong, but the last drops it had contained were trickling down the flanks of my horse. I knew that I might be fifty miles from water. You cannot understand the fearfulness of this situation. You live in a northern zone, in a land of pools and streams and limpid springs. How unlike the denizen of the desert, the voyageur of the prairie sea, water is his chief care, his ever-present solicitude, water the divinity he worships. Without water, even in the midst of plenty, plenty of food, he must die. In the wild western desert it is the thirst that kills. No wonder I was filled with despair. I believed myself to be about the middle of the Hornada. I knew that I could never reach the other side without water. The yearning had already begun. My throat and tongue felt shriveled and parched. I had lost all knowledge of the course I should take. The mountains hither to my guide seemed to trend in every direction. Their numerous spurs puzzled me. I remembered hearing of a spring, the Ojo del Muerto, that was said to lie westward of the trail. Sometimes there was water in the spring. On other occasions travelers had reached it only to find the fountain dried up and leave their bones upon it banks. So ran the tails in Socorro. I headed my horse westward. I would seek the spring, and should I fail to find it, push on to the river. This was turning out of my course, but I must reach the water and save my life. I sat in my saddle, faint and choking, leaving my animal to go at will. I had lost the energy to guide him. He went many miles westward, for the sun told me the course. I was suddenly aroused from my stupor. A glad sight was before me. A lake, a lake shining like a crystal. Was I certain I saw it? Could it be the mirage? No, its outlines were too sharply defined. It had not that filmy, whitish appearance which distinguishes the latter phenomenon. No, it was not the mirage, it was water. I involuntarily pressed the spur against the side of my horse, but he needed not that. I had already eyed the water and spring forward, in spirited with new energy. The next moment he was in it up to his flanks. I flung myself from the saddle with a plunge. I was about to lift the water in my concave palms when the actions of my horse attracted me. Instead of drinking greedily he stood tossing his head with snorts of disappointment. My dog too refused a lap, and ran along the shore whining and howling. I knew what this meant, but with that common obstinacy which refuses all testimony but the evidence of the senses, I lifted some drops in my hand and applied them to my lips. They were briny and burning. I might have known this before reaching the lake, for I had ridden through a salt in crustacean that surrounded it like a belt of snow. But my brain was fevered, my reason had left me. It was of no use remaining where I was. I climbed back into my saddle and rode along the shore over fields of snow-white salt. Here and there my horse's hoof rang against bleaching bones of animals, the remains of many a victim. Well was this lake named though Laguna del Muerto? The Lake of Death. Reaching its southern point I again headed westward in hopes of striking the river. From this time until a later period, when I found myself in a far different scene, I have no distinct memories. I remember dismounting on a high bank. I must have travelled unconsciously for hours before, for the sun was low down on the horizon as I alighted. It was a very high bank, a precipice, and below me I saw a beautiful river sweeping onward through groves of emerald greenness. I thought there were many birds fluttering in the groves, and their voices rang in delicious melody. There was fragrance on the air. And the scene below me seemed anelissium. I thought that around where I stood all was bleak and barren and parched with intolerable heat. I was tortured with a slackless thirst that grew fiercer as I gazed on the flowing water. These were real incidents. All this was true. I must drink. I must to the river. It is cool, sweet water. Oh! I must drink. What? A horrid cliff? No. I will not go down there. I can descend more easily here. Who are these forms? Who are you, sir? Ah! It is you, my brave morrow. And you, Alp. Come, come, follow me, down, down to the river. Ah! Again that accursed cliff. Look at the beautiful water. It smiles. It ripples. On, on, on. Let us drink. No, not yet. We cannot yet. We must go further. Ah! Such a height to leap from. But we must drink, one and all. Come, goad, come, morrow, old friend, Alp, come on. We shall reach it. We shall drink. Who is tauntless? Ha! Ha! Not I. Not I. Stand back, fiends. Do not push me over. Back! Back! I say. Oh! Part of all this was a reality. Part was a dream. A dream that bore some resemblance to the horrors of a first intoxication. End of Chapter 11 CHAPTER XII ZOE I lay tracing the figures upon the curtains. They were scenes of the olden time, mailed nights, helmed and mounted, dashing at each other with couched lances, or tumbling from their horses, pierced by the spear. Other scenes there were, noble dames sitting on Flemish pilferies, and watching the flight of the Merlin hawk. There were pages in waiting, and dogs of curious and extinct breeds held in the leash. Perhaps these never existed except in the dreams of some old-fashioned artist, but my eye followed their strange shapes with a sort of half-idiotic wonder. Big rods upheld the curtains, rods that shone brightly and curved upwards forming a canopy. My eyes ran along these rods, scanning their configuration, and admiring, as a child admires, the regularity of their curves. I was not in my own land. These things were strange to me. Yet, thought I, I have seen something like them before, but where? Oh! this I know, with its broad stripes and silken texture, it is a Navajo blanket. Where was I last? In New Mexico? Yes, now I remember. The hornada. But how came I? Can I untwist this? It is close-woven. It is wool, fine wool. No, I cannot separate a thread from... My fingers, how white and thin they are, and my nails blue and long as the talons of a bird. I have a beard. I fill it on my chin. What gave me a beard? I never wear it. I will shave it off. Ha! My moustache! I was wearied and slept again. Once more my eyes were tracing the figures upon the curtains, the knights and dames, the hounds, hawks and horses. But my brain had become clearer and music was flowing into it. I lay silent and listened. The voice was a female's. It was soft and finely modulated. One played upon a stringed instrument. I recognized the tones of the Spanish harp, but the song was French, a song of Normandy, and the words were in the language of that romantic land. I wondered at this, for my consciousness of Lady Vence was returning, and I knew that I was far from France. The light was streaming over my couch, and, turning my face to the front, I saw that the curtains were drawn aside. I was in a large room, oddly but elegantly furnished. Human figures were before me, seated and standing. After looking steadily for a while, my vision became more distinct and reliable, and I saw that there were about three persons in the room, a man and two females. I remained silent, not certain, but that the scene before me was only some new phase of my dream. My eyes wandered from one of the living figures to another, without attracting the attention of any of them. They were all in different attitudes and occupied differently. Nerestme was a woman of middle age, seated upon a low ottoman. The harp I had heard was before her, and she continued to play. She must have been, I thought, when young a woman of extreme beauty, she was still beautiful in a certain sense. The noble features were there, though I could perceive that they had been scathed by more than ordinary suffering of the mind. She was a French woman, and ethnologists could have told that at a glance. Those lines, the characteristics of her highly gifted race, were easily traceable. I thought there was a time when that phase had witched many a heart with its smiles. There were no smiles on it now, but a deep yet intellectual expression of melancholy, this I perceived too in her voice, in her song, in every note that vibrated from the strings of the instrument. My eye wandered farther, a man of more than middle age stood by the table near the centre of the room. His face was turned towards me, and his nationality was as easily determined as that of the lady. The high floored cheeks, the broad front, the prominent chin, the small green cap with its long peak and conical crown, the blue spectacles were all characteristics. He was a German. His occupation was also characteristic of his nationality. Before him were strewed over the table and upon the floor, the objects of his study, plants and shrubs of various species. He was busy with these, classifying and carefully laying them out between the leaves of his portfolio. It was evident that the old man was a botanist. A glance to the right, and the naturalist and his labours were no longer regarded, I was looking upon the loveliest object that ever came before my eyes and my heart bounded within me. As I strained forward in the intensity of its admiration. Yet it was not a woman that held my gaze captive, but a child, a girl, a maid, standing upon the threshold of womanhood, ready to cross it at the first summons of love. My eyes delighted, reveled, along the graceful curves that outlined the beautiful being before me. I thought I had seen the face somewhere, I had, but a moment before, while looking upon that of the elder lady. They were the same face, using a figure of speech, the type transmitted from mother to daughter, the same high front and facial angle, the same outline of the nose, straight as a ray of light, with the delicate spiral-like curve of the nostril which meets you in the Greek medallion. Their hair, too, was alike in colour golden, though in that of the mother the gold showed an enamel of silver. I will desist and spare details, which to you may be of little rest. In return, do me the favour to believe that the being who impressed me then, and for ever, was beautiful, was lovely. Ah, it would be very much kindness if madame and mademoiselle would play la Marseille, la Grande Marseille. What say mean, libe froline? Zoë, zoë, take thy bandolin. Yes, doctor, we will play it for you with pleasure. You like the music, so do we. Come, Zoë. The young girl, who up to this time had been watching intently, the labours of the naturalist, glided to a remote corner of the room and taking up an instrument resembling the guitar, returned and seated herself by her mother. The bandolin was soon placed in concert with the harp, and the strings of both vibrated to the thrilling notes of the Marseille. There was something exceedingly graceful in the performance, the instrumentation, as I thought, was perfect, and the voices of the players accompanied it in a sweet and spirited harmony. As I gazed upon the girl, Zoë, her features animated by the thrilling thoughts of the anthem, her whole countenance radiant with light, she seemed some immortal being, a young goddess of liberty calling her children to arms. The botanist had desisted from his labours and stood listening with delighted attention, at each return of the thrilling invocation. Aux arms, citoyens. The old man snapped his fingers and beat the floor with his feet, marking the time of the music. He was filled with the same spirit which at that time all over Europe was gathering to its crisis. Where am I, French faces, French music, French voices, and the conversation in French? For the botanist addressed the females in that language, though with the strong, renish patois that confirmed my first impressions of his nationality. Where am I? My eye ran around the room in search of an answer. I could recognise the furniture, the cross-legged, campy-chee chairs, a reboso, the palm-leave patate. Ha! Alp! The dog lay stretched along the mattress near my couch and sleeping. Alp! Alp! Oh! Mama! Mama! Okute! The stranger calls. The dog sprang to his feet and throwing his forepaws upon the bed stretched his nose towards me with a joyous whimpering. I reached out my hand and pat at him, at the same time giving utterance to some expressions of endearment. Oh! Mama! Mama! He knows him! Wallah! The lady rose hastily and approached the bed. The Germans seized me by the wrist pushing back the St. Bernard, which was bounding to spring upward. Mandu! He is well! His eyes, doctor! How changed? Yah! Yah! Very much better! Hush! Away, dog! Keep away! Mind-goot, dog! Who? Where? Tell me! Where am I? Who are you? Do not fear! We are friends! You have been ill! Yes, yes, we are friends! You have been ill, sir! Do not fear us! We will watch you! This is the good doctor! This is Mama! And I am—an angel from heaven, beautiful Zoe! The child looked at me with an expression of wonder and blushed as she said, Here, Mama! He knows my name! It was the first compliment she had ever received from the lips of love. It is good, madame! He is very much relieved. He very soon get over now. Keep away, mind-goot, Alp! Your master he get well! Goot-dog! Down! Perhaps, doctor, we should leave him! The noise! No, no! If you please, stay with me! The music! Will you play again? Yes, the music is vergoot, vergoot for to-pain. Oh, Mama, let us play, then. Both mother and daughter took up their instruments, and again commenced playing. I listened to the sweet strains, watching the fair musicians, a long while. My eyes at length became heavy, and the realities before me changed into the soft outlines of a dream. My dream was broken by the abrupt cessation of the music. I thought I heard, through my sleep, the opening of a door. When I looked to the spot lately occupied by the musicians, I saw that they were gone. The bandolin had been thrown down upon the ottoman, where it lay, but she was not there. I could not from my position see the whole of the apartment, but I knew that someone had entered at the outer door. I heard expressions of welcome and endearment, a rustling of dresses, the words, Papa. My little Zoe, the latter uttered in the voice of a man, then followed some explanations in a lower tone, which I could not hear. A few minutes elapsed, and I lay silent and listening. Presently there were footsteps in the hall, a boot with its jingling rails struck upon the tiled floor. The footsteps entered the room and approached the bed. I started, as I looked up, the scalp-hunter was before me. CHAPTER XIII You are better. You will soon be well again. I am glad to see that you recover. He said this without offering his hand. I am indebted to you for my life, is it not so? It is strange that I felt convinced of this the moment that I set my eyes upon the man. I think such an idea crossed my mind before, after awaking from my long dream. Had I encountered him in my struggles for water, or had I dreamed it? Oh yes, answered he with a smile, but you will remember that I had something to do with your being exposed to the risk of losing it. Will you take this hand? Will you forgive me? After all, there is something selfish even in gratitude. How strangely had it changed my feelings towards this man? I was begging the hand which, but a few days ago, in the pride of my morality I had spurned from me as a loathsome thing. But there were other thoughts that influenced me. The man before me was the husband of the lady, was the father of Zoe. His character, his horrid calling, were forgotten, and the next moment our hands were joined in the embrace of friendship. I have nothing to forgive. I honour the sentiment that induced you to act as you did. This declaration may seem strange to you. From what you know of me you acted rightly, but there may be a time, sir, when you will know me better, when the deeds which you abhor may seem not only pardonable, but justifiable. Enough of that at present. The object of my being now at your bedside is to request that what you do know of me be not uttered here. His voice sank to a whisper as he said this, pointing at the same time towards the door of the room. But how, I asked, wishing to draw his attention from this unpleasant theme, how came I into this house? It is yours, I perceive. How came I here? Where did you find me? In no very safe position answered he with a smile, I can scarcely claim the merit of saving you, your noble horse, you may thank for that. Ah, my horse, my brave morrow! I have lost him. Your horse is standing at the maize-trough, not ten paces from where you lie. I think you will find him in a somewhat better condition than when you last saw him. Your mules are without. Your packs are safe. You will find them here. And he pointed to the foot of the bed. And— Goad you would ask for, said he, interrupting me. Do not be uneasy on his account. He too is in safety. He is absent just now, but will soon return. How can I thank you? This is good news indeed, my brave morrow, and Alp here, but how? You say my horse saved me. He has done so before. How can this be? Simply thus we found you many miles from this place on a cliff that overlooks the Del Norte. You were hanging over on your lasso that, by a lucky accident, had become entangled around your body. One end of it was knotted to the bit-ring and the noble animal thrown back upon his haunches. And your weight upon his neck. Noble morrow, what a terrible situation. I, you may say that. Had you fallen from it you would have passed through a thousand feet of air before striking the rocks below. It was indeed a fearful situation. I must have staggered over in my search for water. In your delirium you walked over. You would have done so a second time had we not prevented you. When we drew you up on the cliff you struggled hard to get back. You saw the water below, but not the precipice. Thirst is a terrible thing and insanity of itself. I remember something of all this. I thought it had been a dream. Do not trouble your brain with such things. The doctor here admonishes me to leave you. I have an object, as I have said. Here a sad expression passed over the countenance of the speaker. Else I should not have paid you this visit. I have not many moments to spare. Tonight I must be far hence. In a few days I shall return. Meanwhile compose yourself and get well. The doctor here will see that you want for nothing. My wife and daughter will nurse you. Thanks, thanks. You will do well to remain where you are until your friends return from Chihuahua. They must pass not far from this place, and I will warn you when they are near. You are a student. There are books here in different languages. Amuse yourself. They will give you music. Masour, adieu. Stay, sir, one moment. You seem to have taken a strange fancy to my horse. Ah, Masour, it was no fancy, but I will explain that at some other time, perhaps the necessity no longer exists. Take him, if you will. Another will serve my purpose. No, Masour, do you think I would rob you of what you esteem so highly, and with such just reason too? No, no. Keep the good morrow. I do not wonder at your attachment to the noble brute. You say that you have a long journey to-night, then take him for the time. That offer I will freely accept, for indeed my own horse is somewhat jaded. I have been two days in the saddle. Well, adieu. Seguin pressed my hand and walked away. I heard the chink-chink of his spurs as he crossed the apartment, and the next moment the door closed behind him. I was alone and lay listening to every sound that reached me from without. In about half an hour after he had left me I heard the hoof-strokes of a horse and saw the shadow of a horseman passing outside the window. He had departed on his journey, doubtless on the performance of some red duty connected with his fearful avocation. I lay for a while harassed in mind, thinking of this strange man. In sweet voices interrupted my meditations. Before me appeared lovely faces, and the Scalp-Hunter was forgotten. CHAPTER XIV Love I would compress the story of the ten days following into as many words. I would not weary you with the details of my love, a love that in the space of a few hours became a passion deep and ardent. I was young at the time, at just such an age as to be impressed by the romantic incidents that surrounded me, and had thrown this beautiful being in my way. At that age when the heart, unguarded by cold calculations of the future, yields unresistingly to the electrical impressions of love. I say electrical, I believe that at this age the sympathies that spring up between heart and heart are purely of this nature. At a later period of life that power is dissipated and divided, reason rules it, we become conscious of the capability of transferring our affections. For they have already broken faith, and we lose that sweet confidence that comforted the loves of our youth. We are either imperious or jealous, as the advantages appear in our favour or against us. A gross alloy enters into the love of our middle life, sadly detracting from the divinity of its character. I might call that which I then felt my first real passion. I thought I had loved before, but no, it was only a dream. The dream of the village schoolboy, who saw heaven in the bright eyes of his coy classmate, or perhaps at the family picnic in some romantic dell, had tasted the rosy cheek of his pretty cousin. I grew strong, and with a rapidity that surprised the skillful man of herbs. Love fed and nourished the fire of life. The will often affects the deed, and, say as you may, volition has its power upon the body. The wish to be well, to live, an object to live for, are often the speediest restoratives. They were mine. I grew stronger, and rose from my couch. A glance at the mirror told me that my colour was returning. Instinct teaches the bird, while wooing his mate, to plume his opinions to their highest gloss, and a similar feeling now rendered me solicitous about my toilet. My portmanteau was ransacked, my razours were drawn forth, the beard disappeared from my chin, and my mustache was trimmed to its wanted dimensions. I confess all this. The world had told me I was not ill-looking, and I believed what it said. I am mortal in my vanities, are not you? There was a guitar in the house, I had learnt in my college days to touch the strings, and its music delighted both Zoe and her mother. I sang to them the songs of my own land, songs of love, and with the throbbing heart watched whether the burning words produced any impression upon her. More than once I have laid aside the instrument with feelings of disappointment. From day to day strange reflections passed through my mind. Could it be that she was too young to understand the import of the word love, too young to be inspired with a passion? She was but twelve years of age, but then she was the child of a sunny climb, and I had often seen at that age, under the warm sky of Mexico, the wetted bride, the fond mother. Day after day we were together alone. The botanist was busy with his studies, and the silent mother occupied with the duties of her household. Love is not blind, it may be to all the world beside, but to its own object it is as watchful as Argus. I was skilled in the use of the crayon, and I amused my companion by sketches, upon scraps of paper and the blank leaves of her music. Many of these were the figures of females, in different attitudes and costumes. In one respect they resembled each other, their faces were alike. The child, without divining the cause, had noticed this peculiarity in the drawings. Why is it, she asked one day, as we sat together, these ladies are all in different costumes of different nations. Are they not? And yet there is a resemblance in their faces. They have all the same features, indeed exactly the same, I think. It is your face, Zoe, I can sketch no other. She raised her large eyes and bent them upon me with an expression of innocent wonder. Was she blushing? No. Is that like me? It is, as nearly as I can make it. And why do you not sketch other faces? Why, because I—Zoe, I fear you would not understand me. Oh, Enrique, do you think me so bad a scholar? Do I not understand all that you tell me, of the far countries where you have been? Surely I may comprehend this as well. I will tell you, then, Zoe. I bent forward with a burning heart and trembling voice. It is because your face is ever before me. I can paint no other. It is that—I love you, Zoe. Oh, is that the reason? And when you love one, her face is always before you. Whether she herself be present or no? It is not so. It is so, I replied, with a painful feeling of disappointment. And is that love, Enrique? It is. Then I must love you. For wherever I may be I can see your face, how plainly before me. If I could use this pencil as you do, I am sure I could paint it, though you are not near me. What then do you think I love you, Enrique? No pen could trace my feelings at that moment. We were seated, and the sheet on which were the sketches was held jointly between us. It wandered over its surface, until the unresisting fingers of my companion were clasped in mine. A wilder emotion followed the electric touch. The paper fell upon the floor. And with a proud but trembling heart I drew the yielding form to mine. CHAPTER XV The House we inhabited stood in a quadrangular enclosure that sloped down to the banks of the river, the Del Norte. This enclosure was a garden or shrubbery, guarded on all sides by high, thick walls of adobe. Along the summit of these walls had been planted rows of the cactus that threw out huge thorny limbs, forming an impassable chavo de frise. There was but one entrance to the house and garden, through a strong wicked gate, which I had noticed was always shut and barred. I had no desire to go abroad. The garden, a large one hitherto had formed a limit of my walk, and through this I often rambled with Zoe and her mother, but often her with Zoe alone. There were many objects of interest about the place. It was a ruin, and the house itself bore evidences of better times. It was a large building in the Moro Spanish style, with flat roof, azotea, and notched parapet running along the front. Here and there the little stone turrets of this parapet had fallen off, showing signs of neglect and decay. The walls of the garden impinged upon the river, and there ended, for the bank was steep and vertical, and the deep still water that ran under it formed a sufficient protection on that side. A thick grove of cottonwoods fringed the bank of the river, and under their shade had been erected a number of seats of Japan's mason work, in a style similar to Spanish countries. There were steps cut in the face of the bank, overhung with drooping shrubs and leading to the water's edge. I had noticed a small skiff moored under the willows, where these steps went down to the water. From this point only could you see beyond the limits of the enclosure, the view was magnificent, and commanded the windings of the Del Norte for a distance of miles. Evening after evening we sought the grove of cottonwoods, and seated upon one of the benches, together watched the glowing sunset. At this time of the day we were ever alone, I and my little companion. On evening, as usual, we sat under the solemn shadow of the grove. We had brought with us the guitar and bandolin, but after a few notes had been struck the music was forgotten, and the instruments lay upon the grass at our feet. We loved to listen to the music of our own voices. We preferred the utterance of our own thoughts to the sentiments of any song, however sweet. There was music enough around us, the home of the wild bee as it bade farewell to the closing corolla, the hoop of the grua in the distant sedge, and the soft cooing of the doves as they sat in pairs upon the adjacent branches, like us whispering their mutual loves. Autumn had now painted the woods, and the frontage was of every hue. The shadows of the tall trees dappled the surface of the water as the stream rolled silently on. The sun was far down, and the spire of El Paso gleamed like a golden star under the parting kiss of his beams. Our eyes wandered and rested upon the glittering vein. The church have soliloquized my companion. I hardly know what it is like. It is so long since I saw it. How long? Oh, many, many years. I was very young then. And you have not been beyond these walls since then? Oh, yes, Papa has taken us down the river in the boat, Mama and myself, often, but not lately. And have you no wish to go abroad through these gay woods? I do not desire it. I am contented here. And will you always be contented here? And why not, Enrique? When you are near me, why should I not be happy? But when a dark shadow seemed to cross her thoughts, benighted with love she had never reflected upon the probability of my leaving her, nor indeed had I. Her cheeks became suddenly pale, and I could see the agony gathering in her eyes. As she fixed them upon me. But the words were out. When I must leave you? She threw herself on my breast, with a short, sharp scream, as though she had been stung to the heart, and in an impassioned voice cried out, Oh, my God, my God, leave me, leave me! Oh, you will not leave me! You, who have taught me to love, oh, Enrique! Why did you tell me that you loved me? Why did you teach me to love? Zoe! Enrique! Enrique! Say you will not leave me! Never Zoe! I swear it! Never, never! I fancied at this moment I heard the stroke of an oar, but the wild tumult of my feelings prevented me from rising to look over the bank. I was raising my head when an object appearing above the bank caught my eye. It was a black sombrero with its golden band. I knew the wearer at a glance. Seguin! In a moment he was beside us. Papa, exclaimed Zoe, rising up and reaching forward to embrace him. The father put her to one side, at the same time tightly grasping her hand in his. For a moment he remained silent, bending his eyes upon me with an expression I cannot depict. There was in it a mixture of reproach, sorrow, and indignation. I had risen to confront him, but I quelled under that singular glance and stood abashed and silent. And this is the way you have thanked me for saving your life. A brave return, good sir. What thank you? I made no reply. Sir, continued he, in a voice trembling with emotion, you have deeply wronged me. I know it not. I have not wronged you. What call you this, trifling with my child? Trifling, I exclaimed, roused to boldness by the accusation. I, trifling, have you not won her affections? I won them fairly. Shaa, sir! This is a child, not a woman. Won them fairly. What can she know of love? Papa, I do know love. I have felt it for many days. Do not be angry with Enrique, for I love him. Oh, Papa, in my heart I love him. He turned to her with a look of astonishment. Hear this, he exclaimed. Oh, heavens, my child, my child! His voice stung me, for it was full of sorrow. And sir, I cried, placing myself directly before him, I have won the affections of your daughter. I have given mine in return. I am her equal in rank, as she is mine. What crime, then, have I committed? Wherein have I wronged you? He looked at me for some moments without making any reply. You would marry her, then? He said, at length, with an evident change in his manner. Had I permitted our love thus far, without that intention, I should have merited your reproaches. I should have been trifling, as you have said. Marry me, exclaimed Zoe, with a look of bewilderment. Listen, poor child, she knows not the meaning of the word. I, lovely Zoe, I will, else my heart, like yours, shall be wrecked for ever. Oh, sir! Come, sir, enough of this. You have won her from herself. You have yet to win her from me. I will sound the depth of your affection. I will put you to the proof. Let me to any proof. We shall see, come, let us in. Here, Zoe, and taking her by the hand he led her towards the house. I followed close behind. As we passed through a clump of wild orange trees, the path narrowed, and the father, letting go her hand, walked on ahead. Zoe was between us, and as we reached the middle of the grove, she turned suddenly, and, laying her hand upon mine, whispered in a trembling voice, and, Rike, tell me, what is to marry? Dearest Zoe, not now, it is too difficult to explain. Another time, I— Come, Zoe, your hand, child. Papa, I am coming. End of CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI of the Scalp Hunters. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dion Giants, Salt Lake City, Utah. The Scalp Hunters by Thomas Main Reid. CHAPTER XVI. I was alone with my host in the apartment I had hitherto occupied. The females had retired to another part of the house, and I noted that Seguin, on entering, had looked to the door, turning the bolt. What terrible proof was he going to exact of my faith, of my love? Was he about to take my life, or bind me by some fearful oath, this man of cruel deeds? Dark suspicions shot across my mind, and I sat silent. But not without emotions of fear. A bottle of wine was placed between us, and Seguin, pouring out two glasses, asked me to drink. This courtesy assured me. But how if the wine be poit? He swallowed his own glass before the thought had fairly shaped itself. I am wronging him, thought I. This man, with all, is incapable of an act of treachery like that. I drank up the wine. It made me feel more composed and tranquil. After a moment's silence he opened the conversation with the abrupt interrogatory. What do you know of me? Your name and calling, nothing more. More than is guessed at here, and he pointed significantly to the door. Who told you this much of me? A friend whom you saw at Santa Fe. Ah, Saint Vrain, a brave, bold man, I met him once in Chihuahua. Did he tell you no more of me than this? No, he promised to enter into particulars concerning you, but the subject was forgotten. The caravan moved on, and we were separated. You heard, then, that I was Seguin, the scalp-hunter, that I was employed by the citizens of El Paso to hunt the Apache and Navajo, and that I was paid a stated sum for every Indian scalp I could hang upon their gates. You heard all this? I did. It is true. I remained silent. Now, sir, he continued after a pause, would you marry my daughter, the child of a wholesale murderer? Your crimes are not hers. She is innocent, even of the knowledge of them, as you have said. You may be a demon. She is an angel. There was a sad expression on his countenance, as I said this. Crimes, demon, he muttered, half in soliloquy. I, you may well think this, so judges the world. You have heard the stories of the mountain men in all their red exaggeration. You have heard that during a treaty. I invited a village of the Apaches to a banquet, and poisoned the Vians, poisoned the Gaths, man, woman, and child. And then scalp them. You have heard that I induced a pool upon the drag-rope of a cannon, two hundred savages, who know not its use, and then fired the peas, loaded with grape, mowing down the row of the unsuspecting wretches. These and other inhuman acts you have no doubt heard of. It is true. I have heard these stories among the mountain hunters, but I knew not whether to believe them. M'sour, they are false, all false and unfounded. I am glad to hear you say this. I could not now believe you capable of such barbarities. And yet, if they were true in all their horrid details, they would fall far short of the cruelties that have been dill'd out by the savage foe to the inhabitants of this defenceless frontier. If you knew the history of this land for the last ten years, its massacres and its murders, its tears and its burnings, its spoillations, whole provinces depopulated, villages given to the flames, men butchered on their own hearths, women, beautiful women, carried into captivity by the desert robber, oh, God, and I too have shared wrongs that will equip me in your eyes, perhaps, in the eyes of heaven. The speaker buried his face in his hands and leaned forward upon the table. He was evidently suffering from some painful recollection. After a moment he resumed, I would have you listened to a short history of my life. I signified my ascent, and after filling in drinking another glass of wine, he proceeded, I am not a Frenchman, as men suppose. I am a Creole, a native of New Orleans. My parents were refugees from St. Domingo, where, after the Black Revolution, the bulk of their fortune was confiscated by the bloody Christophe. I was educated for a civil engineer, and in this capacity I was brought out to the minds of Mexico, by the owner of one of them, who knew my father. I was young at the time, and I spent several years employed, in the minds of Zacatecas and San Luis Potosi. I had saved some money out of my pay, and I began to think of opening upon my own account. Rumors had long been current that rich veins of gold existed upon the Gila and its tributaries. The washings had been seen and gathered in these rivers, and the mother of gold, the milky quartz rock, cropped out everywhere in the desert mountains of this wild region. I started for this country with a select party, and after traversing it for weeks, in the membrous mountains, near the headwaters of the Gila, I found the precious ore in its bed. I established a mine, and in five years was a rich man. I remembered the companion of my youth, the gentle, the beautiful cousin, who had shared my confidence, and inspired me with my first passion. With me it was first and last. It was not, as is often the case, under similar circumstances, a transient thing. Through all my wanderings I had remembered and loved her. Had she been as true to me? I determined to assure myself, and leaving my affairs in the hands of my mayoral, I set out for my native city. Adele had been true, and I returned bringing her with me. I built a house in Valverde, the nearest inhabited district to my mine. Valverde was then a thriving place. It is now a ruin, which you may have seen in your journey down. In this place we lived for years, in the enjoyment of wealth and happiness. I look back upon those days, as so many ages of bliss. My love was mutual and ardent, and we were blessed with two children, both girls. The youngest resembled her mother. The other, I have been told, was more like myself. We doubted I fear too much on these pledges. We were too happy in their possession. At this time a new governor was sent to Santa Fe. A man who, by his wantonness and tyranny, has since then ruined the province. There has been no act too vile, no crime too dark, for this human monster. He offered fair enough at first, and was feasted in the houses of the Ricos through the valley. As I was classed among these I was honoured with his visits, and frequently. He resided principally at Albuquerque, and grand fates were given at his palace, to which my wife and I were invited as special guests. He in return often came to our house in Valverde, under pretense of visiting the different parts of the province. I discovered at length that his visits were solely intended for my wife, to whom he had paid some flattering attentions. I will not dwell on the beauty of Adele at this time. You may imagine that for yourself, and Missour, you may assist your imagination by allowing it to dwell on those graces you appear to have discovered in her daughter, for the little Zoe is a type of what her mother was. At the time I speak of she was still in the bloom of her beauty. The fame of that beauty was on every tongue, and had peaked the vanity of the wanton tyrant. For this reason I became the object of his friendly assiduities. I had divined this, but, confiding in the virtue of my wife, I took no notice of his conduct. No overt act of insult as yet claimed my attention. Returning on one occasion from a long absence at the mines, Al informed me, what, through delicacy, she had hitherto concealed, of insults received from his excellency at various times, but particularly in a visit he had paid her during my absence. This was enough for Creole blood. I repaired to Albuquerque, and on the public plaza, in presence of the multitude, I chastised the insultor. I was seized and thrown into a prison, where I lay for several weeks. When I was freed, and sought my home again, it was plundered and desolate. The wild Navajo had been there, my household gods were scattered and broken, and my child, oh God, my little Adele, was carried captive to the mountains. And your wife, your other child, I inquired, eager to know the rest. They had escaped. In the terrible conflict, for my poor peons battled bravely, my wife, with Zoe in her arms, had rushed out and hid in a cave, that was in the garden. I found them in the ranche of a vaquero, in the woods, whether they had wandered. And your daughter, Adele, have you heard out of her sense? Yes, yes, I will come to that in a moment. My mine, at the same time, was plundered and destroyed. Many of the workmen were slaughtered before they could escape, and the work itself, with my fortune, became a ruin. With some of the miners who had fled, and others of Valverde, who, like me, had suffered, I organised a band and followed the savage foe, but our pursuit was vain, and we turned back, many of us broken in health and heart. Oh, M'sour, you cannot know what it is to have thus lost a favourite child. You cannot understand the agony of the bereaved father. The speaker pressed his head between his hands, and remained for a moment silent. His countenance bore the indications of heart-rending sorrow. My story will soon be told, up to the present time. Who knows the end? For years I hung upon the frontiers of the Indian country, hunting for my child. I was aided by a small band, most of them unfortunates like myself, who had lost wife or daughter, in a similar manner. But our means became exhausted, and despair wore us out. The sympathies of my companions grew old and cold. One after another gave up. The Governor of New Mexico offered us no aid. On the contrary, it was suspected, then, it is now known, that the Governor himself was in secret league with the Navajo chiefs. He had engaged to leave them unmolested, while they, on their side, promised a plunder only his enemies. On learning this terrible secret I saw the hand that had dealt me the blow. Stung by the disgrace I had put upon him, as well as by my wife's scorn, the villain was not slow to avenge himself. Since then his life has been twice in my power, but the taking of it would, most probably, have forfeited my own, and I had objects for which to live. I may yet find a reckoning day for him. I have said that my band melted away. Sick at heart and conscious of danger in New Mexico, I left the province and crossed the Hornada to El Paso. Therefore a while I lived, grieving for my lost child. I was not long inactive. The frequent forays made by the Apaches into Sonora and Chihuahua had rendered the government more energetic in the defence of the frontier. The prosidios were repaired and garrisoned with more efficient troops, and a band of rangers organised whose pay was proportioned to the number of scalps they might send back to the settlements. I was offered the command of this strange guerrilla, and in the hope that I might yet recover my child, I accepted it. I became a scalp-hunter. It was a terrible commission, and had revenge alone been my object, it would long since have been gratified. Many a deed of blood have we enacted. Many a scene of retaliatory vengeance have we passed through. I knew that my captive daughter was in the hands of the Navajos. I had heard so at various times from prisoners whom I had taken. But I was always crippled for want of strength in men and means. Revolution after revolution kept the states in poverty and civil warfare, and our interests were neglected or forgotten. With all my exertions I could never raise a force sufficient to penetrate that desert country north of the Gila, in which lie the towns of the savage Navajos. And you think? Patience! I shall soon finish. My band is now stronger than ever. I have received certain information, by one just escaped from a captivity among the Navajos, that the warriors of both tribes are about to proceed southward. They are mustering all their strength, with the intention of making a grand foray, even as we have heard to the gates of Durango. It is my design, then, to enter their country while they are absent and search for my daughter. And you think she still lives? I know it. The same man who brought me this news, and who, poor fellow, has left his scalp and ears behind him, saw her often. She has grown up, and is, he says, a sort of queen among them, possessed of strange powers and privileges. Yes, she still lives, and if it be my fortune to recover her, then will this tragic scene be at an end? I will go far hence. I had listened with deep attention to the strange recital. All the disgust with which my previous knowledge of this man's character had inspired me, vanished from my mind, and I felt for him compassion, I admiration. He had suffered much, suffering atones for crime, and in my sight he was justified. Perhaps I was too lenient in my judgment. It was natural I should be so. When the revelation was ended I was filled with emotions of pleasure. I felt a vivid joy to know that she was not the offspring of the demon I had deemed him. He seemed to divine my thoughts, for there was a smile of satisfaction, I might say triumph on his countenance, as he leaned across the table to refill the wine. M'sour, my story must have worried you. Drink! There was a moment's silence as we emptied the glasses. And now, sir, you know the father of your betrothed, at least somewhat better than before. Are you still in the mind to marry her? Oh, sir, she is now more than ever, to me, a sacred object. But you must win her, as I have said, from me. Then, sir, tell me how. I am ready for any sacrifice that may be within my power to make. You must help me to recover her sister. Willingly. You must go with me to the desert. I will. Enough. We start tomorrow. And he rose and began to pace the room. At an early hour I inquired, half fearing that I was about to be denied an interview with her whom I now more than ever long to embrace. By daybreak he replied, not seeming to heed my anxious manner. I must look to my horse and arms, said I, rising, and going towards the door, in hopes of meeting her without. They have been attended to. Goad is there. Come, boy, she is not in the hall. Stay where you are. I will get the arms you want. Adele, Zoe. Oh, doctor, you are returned with your weeds. It is well. We journey to-morrow. Adele, some coffee, love, and then let us have some music. Your guest leaves you to-morrow. The bright form rushed between us with a scream. No, no, no, no, she exclaimed, turning from one to the other, with the wild appeal of a passionate heart. Come, little dove, said the father, taking her by the hands. Do not be so easily fluttered. It is but for a short time. He will return again. How long, Papa? How long, Enrique? But a very short while. It will be longer to me than to you, Zoe. Oh, no, no, an hour will be a long time. How many hours do you think, Enrique? Oh, we shall be gone days, I fear. Days, oh, Papa, oh, Enrique, days! Come, little chit, they will soon pass. Go help your mama to make the coffee. Oh, Papa, days, long days! They will not soon pass when I am alone. But you will not be alone. Your mama will be with you. Ah! And with a sigh and an air of abstraction, she departed to obey the command of her father. As she passed out at the door, she again sighed audibly. The doctor was a silent and wondering spectator of this last scene, and as her figure vanished into the hall, I could hear him muttering to himself. Oh, ja! Poor little Fraline! I thought as mosh! End of CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII. OF THE SCALP HUNTERS. This is a LibriVox recording. While LibriVox recordings are in the public domain, for more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dionne Jines, Salt Lake City, Utah. The Scalp Hunters by Thomas Main Reid. CHAPTER XVII. UP THE DEL NORTE. I will not distress you with a parting scene. We were in our saddles before the stars had died out, and riding along the sandy road. At a short distance from the house, the path angled, striking into thick heavy timber. Here I checked my horse, allowing my companions to pass, and standing in the stirrup looked back. My eyes wandered along the old gray walls and sought the Azatea. Upon the very edge of the parapet, outlined against the pale light of the aurora, was the object I looked for. I could not distinguish the features, but I easily recognized the oval curvings of the figure, cut like a dark medallion against the sky. She was standing near one of the Yucca palm trees that grew up from the Azatea. Her hand rusted upon its trunk, and she bent forward, straining her gaze into the darkness below. Perhaps she saw the waving of a kerchief. Perhaps she heard her name, and echoed the parting prayer that was sent back to her on the still breath of the morning. If so, her voice was drowned by the tread of my chafing horse, that wheeling suddenly bore me off into the somber shadows of the forest. I rode forward, turning at intervals to catch a glimpse of those lovely outlines, but from no other point was the house visible. It lay buried in the dark, majestic woods. I could only see the long bayonets of the picturesque, Pamilias. And our road now descending among hills, these two were soon hidden from my view. Dropping the bridle and leaving my horse to go at will, I fell into a train of thoughts at once pleasant and painful. I knew that I had inspired this young creature with a passion deep and ardent as my own, perhaps more vital. For my heart had passed through other affections, while hers had never throbbed with any save the subdued solicitudes of a graceful childhood. She had never known emotion. Love was her first strong feeling, her first passion. Would it not, thus enthroned, reign over all other? Thoughts in her heart's kingdom? She too so formed for love. So like its mythic goddess. These reflections were pleasant, but the picture darkened as I turned from looking back for the last time, and something whispered me, some demon it was, you may never see her more. The suggestion, even in this hypothetical form, was enough to fill my mind with dark forebodings, and I began to cast my thoughts upon the future. I was going upon no party of pleasure, from which I might return at a fixed hour. Others were before me, the dangers of the desert. And I knew that these were of no ordinary character. In our plans of the previous night Seguin had not concealed the perils of our expedition. These he had detailed before exacting my final promise to accompany him. Weeks before I would not have regarded them, they would only have lured me on to meet them. Now my feelings were different, for I believed that in my life there was another's. But then, if the demon had whispered truly, I might never see her more. It was a painful thought. And I wrote on, bent in the saddle, under the influence of its bitterness. But I was once more upon the back of my favourite morrow, who seemed to know his rider. And as his elastic body heaved beneath me, my spirit answered his, and began to resume its wanted buoyancy. After a while I took up the reins and shortened them in my hands, and hurried on after my companions. Our road lay up the river, crossing the shallow ford at intervals, and winding through the bottom lands, that were heavily timbered. The path was difficult on account of the thick underwood, and although the trees had once been blazed for our road, there were no signs of late travel upon it, with the exception of a few solitary horse-tracks. The country appeared wild and uninhabited. This was evident from the frequency with which deer and antelope swept across our path, or sprang out of the underwood close to the horse's heads. Here and there our path trended away from the river, crossing its numerous loops. Several times we passed large tracks where the heavy timber had been felled and clearings had existed, but this must have been long ago, for the land that had been furrowed by the plough was now covered with tangled and almost impenetrable thickets. A few broken and decaying logs, or crumbled walls of the Adobe, were all that remained to attest where the settler's rancho had stood. We passed a ruined church with its old turrets dropping by peace meal. Piles of Adobe lay around, covering the ground for acres. A thriving village had stood there. Where was it now? Where were the busy gossips? A wildcat sprang over the briar-laced walls and made off into the forest. An owl flew sluggishly up from the crumbling Capola and hovered around our heads, uttering its doleful woo-hoo-ah that rendered the desolation of the scene more impressive. As we rode through the ruin a dead stillness surrounded us, broken only by the hooting of the night-bird and the cranch-cranch of our horse's feet upon the fragments of pottery that covered the deserted streets. But where were they who had once made these walls echo with their voices? Who had knelt under the sacred shadow of that once hallowed pile? They were gone, but where, and when, and why? I put these questions to Seguin and was answered thus briefly. The Indians. The savage it was, with his red spear and scalping knife, his bow and his battle-axe, his brand and his poisoned arrows. The Navajos, I inquired? Navajo and Apache. But do they come no more to this place? A feeling of anxiety had suddenly entered my mind. I thought of our proximity to the mansion we had left. I thought of its unguarded walls. I waited with some impatience for an answer. No more was the brief reply. And why I inquired? This is our territory, he answered significantly. You are now, Musur, in a country where live strange fellows, you shall see. Go to the Apache or Navajo who may stray into these woods. As we rode forward, the country became more open. And we caught a glimpse of high bluffs trending north and south on both sides of the river. These bluffs converged till the river channel appeared to be completely barred up by a mountain. This was only an appearance. On riding farther we found ourselves entering one of those fearful gaps, canyons as they are called, so often met with in the table-lands of tropical America. Through this the river foamed between two vast cliffs, a thousand feet in height, whose profiles, as you approached them, suggested the idea of angry giants, separated by some almighty hand, and thus left frowning at each other. It was with a feeling of awe that one looked up at the face of these stupendous cliffs, and I felt a shuttering sensation as I neared the mighty gate between them. Do you see that point, asked Seguin, indicating a rock that jutted out from the highest ledge of the chasm? I signified in the affirmative. For the question was addressed to myself. That is the leap you were so desirous of taking. We found you dangling against yonder rock. Good God! I ejaculated, as my eyes rusted upon the dizzy eminence. My brain grew giddy as I sat in my saddle gazing upward, and I was feigned to ride onward. But for your noble horse, continued my companion, the doctor here would have been stopping about this time to hypothecate upon your bones. Ho, morrow! Beautiful morrow! Oh, my God! Yah, yah! assented the botanist, looking up against the precipice, apparently with a feeling of awe such as I felt myself. Seguin had ridden, alongside me, and was patting my horse on the neck, with expressions of admiration. But why, I asked, the remembrance of our first interview now occurring to me, why were you so eager to possess him? A fancy. Can I not understand it? I think you said, then, that I could not? Oh, yes, quite easily, Moussour. I intended to steal my own daughter, and I wanted, for that purpose, to have the aid of your horse. But how? It was before I had heard the news of this intended expedition of our enemy, as I had no hopes of obtaining her otherwise, it was my design to have entered their country alone, or with a tried comrade, and by stratagem to have carried her off. Their horses are swift, yet far inferior to the Arab, as you may have had an opportunity of seeing. With such an animal as that I would have been comparatively safe, unless hemmed in or surrounded, and even then I might have got off with a few scratches, I intended to have disguised myself and entered the town as one of their own warriors, I have long been master of their language. It would have been a perilous enterprise. True, it was a denier resort. And only adopted because all other efforts had failed. After years of yearning, deep craving of the heart, I might have perished. It was a rash thought, but I, at that time, entertained it fully. I hope we shall succeed now. I have high hopes. It seems as if some overruling providence were now acting in my favour, this absence of her captors, and besides my band has been most opportunally strengthened by the arrival of a number of trappers from the eastern plains. The beaver skins have fallen, according to their phraseology, to a plough a plug, and they find red skin pays better. Ah, I hope this will soon be over. And he sighed deeply as he uttered the last words. We were now at the entrance of the gorge, and a shady clump of cotton-woods invited us to rest. Let us noon hear, said Seguin. We dismounted and ran our animals out on their trail-ropes to feed. Then, seating ourselves on the soft grass, we drew forth the vines that had been prepared for our journey. End of Chapter 17. CHAPTER XVIII. We rested above an hour in the cool shade, while our horses refreshed themselves on the grama that grew luxuriously around. We conversed about the singular region in which we were travelling, singular in its geography, its geology, its botany, and its history, singular in all respects. I am a traveller, as I might say, by profession. I felt an interest in learning something of the wild countries that stretched for hundreds of miles around us, and I knew there was no man living so capable of being my informant as he with whom I then conversed. My journey down the river had made me but a little acquainted with its features. At that time, as I have already related, there was a fever upon me, and my memory of objects was as though I had encountered them in some distorted dream. My brain was now clear, and the scenes through which we were passing, here soft and south-like, there wild barren and picturesque, orcibly impressed my imagination. The knowledge, too, that parts of this region had once been inhabited by the followers of Cortez, as many a ruin testified, that it had been surrendered back to its ancient and savage lords, and the inference that this surrender had been brought about by the enactment of many a tragic scene, induced a train of romantic thought which yearned for gratification in an acquaintance with the realities that gave rise to it. Seguin was communicative, his spirits were high, his hopes were buoyant, the prospects of again embracing his long-lost child imbued him, as it were, with new life. He had not, he said, felt so happy for many years. It is true, said he, in answer to a question I had put, there is little known of this whole region beyond the boundaries of the Mexican settlements. They who once had the opportunity of recording its geographical features have left the task undone. They were too busy in the search for gold, and their weak descendants, as you see, are too busy in robbing one another to care for odd elts. They know nothing of the country beyond their own borders, and these are every day contracting upon them. All they know of it is the fact that fence came their enemies, whom they dread, as children do ghosts or wolves. We are now continued, Seguin, near the center of the continent, in the very heart of the American Sahara. But, said I, interrupting him, we cannot be more than a day's ride south of New Mexico. That is not a desert, it is a cultivated country. New Mexico is an oasis, nothing more. The desert is around it for hundreds of miles. May in some directions you may travel a thousand miles from the Del Norte without seeing one fertile spot. New Mexico is an oasis which owes its existence to the irrigating waters of the Del Norte. It is the only settlement of white men, from the frontiers of the Mississippi, to the shores of the Pacific, in California. You approached it by a desert, did you not? Yes, as we ascended from the Mississippi towards the Rocky Mountains, the country became gradually more sterile. For the last three hundred miles or so we could scarcely find grass or water for the sustenance of our animals. But is it thus north and south of the route we traveled? North and south for more than a thousand miles, from the plains of Texas to the lakes of Canada, along the whole base of the Rocky Mountains, and halfway to the settlements on the Mississippi, it is a treeless, herbless land. To the west of the mountains? Fifteen hundred miles of desert, that is its length, by at least half as many miles of breadth. The country to the west is of a different character. It is more broken in its outlines, more mountainous, and if possible more sterile in its aspect. The volcanic fires have been more active there, and though that may have been thousands of years ago, the igneous rocks in many places look as if freshly upheaved. No vegetation, no climatic action, has sensibly changed the hues of the lava, and scoriae that in some places cover the plains for miles. I say no climatic action, for there is but little of that in this central region. I do not understand you. What I mean is that there is but little atmospheric change. It is but one uniform drought. It is seldom tempestuous or rainy. I know some districts where a drop of rain has not fallen for years. And can you account for that phenomenon? I have my theory. It may not satisfy the learned meteorologist, but I will offer it to you. I listened with attention, for I knew that my companion was a man of science, as of experience and observation, and subjects of the character of those about which we conversed, had always possessed great interest for me. He continued, There can be no rain without vapor in the air. There can be no vapor in the air without water on the earth below to produce it. Here there is no great body of water, nor can there be. The whole region of the desert is upheaved, an elevated table-land. We are now nearly six thousand feet above sea-level, hence its springs are few, and by hydraulic law must be fed by its own waters, or those of some regions still more elevated, which does not exist on the continent. Could I create vast seas in this region, walled in by the lofty mountains that traverse it, and such seas existed, co-eval, with its formation? Could I create those seas without giving them an outlet, not even allowing the smallest reel to drain them? In process of time they would empty themselves into the ocean, and leave everything, as it now is, a desert. But how, by evaporation? On the contrary, the absence of evaporation would be the cause of their drainage. I believe it has been so already. I cannot understand that. It is simply thus. This region possesses, as we have said, great elevation, consequently a cool atmosphere, and a much less evaporating power than that which draws up the water of the ocean. Now there would be an interchange of vapor between the ocean and these elevated seas, by means of winds and currents, for it is only by that means that any water can reach this interior plateau. That interchange would result in favour of the inland seas, by reason of their less evaporation, as well as from other causes. We have not time, or I could demonstrate such a result. I beg you will admit it, then, and reason it out at your leisure. I perceive the truth. I perceive it at once. What follows, then? These seas would gradually fill up to overflowing. The first little rivulet that trickled forth from their lipping fullness would be the signal of their destruction. It would cut its channel over the ridge of the lofty mountain, tiny at first, but deepening and widening with each successive shower, until, after many years, ages, centuries, cycles perhaps, a great gap such as this. Here Seguin pointed to the canyon. And the dry plain behind it would alone exist to puzzle the geologist. And you think that the plains lying along the Andes and the rocky mountains are the dry beds of seas? I doubt it not. Sees formed after the upheaval of the ridges that barred them in, formed by rains from the ocean, at first shallow, then deepening, until they had risen to the level of their mountain barriers, and, as I have described, cut their way back again to the ocean. But does not one of these seas still exist? The Great Salt Lake? It does. It lies northwest of us, not only one, but a system of lakes, springs and rivers, both salt and fresh, and these have no outlet to the ocean. They are barred in by highlands and mountains, of themselves forming a complete geographical system. Does not that destroy your theory? No. The basin in which this phenomenon exists is on a lower level than most of the desert plateaus. Its evaporating power is equal to the influx of its own rivers and consequently neutralizes their effect. That is to say, in its exchange of vapor with the ocean it gives as much as it receives. This arises not so much from its low elevation as from the peculiar dip of the mountains that guide the waters into its bosom, place it in a colder position, Ceteris paribus, and in time it would cut the canal for its own drainage, so with the Caspian Sea, the Aral, and the Dead Sea. No my friend, the existence of this salt lake supports my theory. Around its shores lie a fertile country, fertile from the quick returns of its own waters moistening it with rain. It exists only to a limited extent, and cannot influence the whole region of the desert, which lies parched and sterile on account of its great distance from the ocean. But does not the vapor rising from the ocean float over the desert? It does, as I have said, to some extent. Else there would be no rain here. Sometimes by extraordinary causes, such as high winds, it is carried into the heart of the continent in large masses. Then we have storms and fearful ones too, but generally it is only the skirt of a cloud, so to speak, that reaches thus far. And that, combined with the proper evaporation of the region itself, that is, from its own springs and rivers, yields all the rain that falls upon it. Great bodies of vapor, rising from the Pacific and drifting eastward, first impinge upon the coast range, and their deposit their waters, or perhaps they are more highly heated, and soaring above the tops of these mountains, travel farther. They will be intercepted a hundred miles farther on, by the loftier ridges of the Sierra Nevada, and carried back as it were captive, to the ocean, by the streams of the Sacramento and San Joaquin. It is only the skirt of these clouds, as I have termed it, that soaring still higher, and escaping the attractive influence of the Nevada, floats on, and falls into the desert region. What then? No sooner has it fallen than it hurries back to the sea, by the Gila and Colorado, to rise again and fertilize the slopes of the Nevada. While the fragment of some other cloud drifts its scanty supply over the arid uplands of the interior, to be spent in rain or snow upon the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, hence the source of the rivers running east and west, and hence the oases, such as the parks that lie among these mountains, hence the fertile valleys upon the Del Norte, and other streams that thinly meander through this central land. Vapor clouds from the Atlantic undergo a similar detention in crossing the Allegheny Range, or cooling after having circled a great distance round the globe, descend into the valleys of the Ohio and Mississippi. From all sides of this great continent, as you approach its center, fertility declines, and only from the want of water. The soil in many places, where there is scarcely a blade of grass to be seen, possesses all the elements of vegetation, so the doctor will tell you, he has analyzed it. Ya, ya, that is true, quietly affirmed the doctor. There are many oases, continued Seguin, and where water can be used to irrigate the soil, luxuriant vegetation is the consequence. You have observed this, no doubt, in travelling down the river, and such was the case in the old Spanish settlements on the Gila. But why were these abandoned? I inquired, never having heard any reason assigned for the desertion of these once-flourishing colonies. Why echoed Seguin with a peculiar energy? Why, unless some other race than the Iberian take possession of these lands, the Apache, the Navajo, and the Comanche, the conquered of Cortez and his conquerors, will yet drive the descendants of those very conquerors from the soil of Mexico? Look at Sonora and Chihuahua, half depopulated. Look at New Mexico, its citizens living by sufferance, living as it were to till the land, and feed the flocks for the support of their own enemies, who levy their blackmail by the year. But come, the sun tells us we must, on, come, mount. We can go through, continued he. There has been no rain lately, and the water is low, otherwise we should have fifteen miles of a ride over the mountain yonder. Be close to the rocks, follow me. And with this admonition he entered the canyon, followed by myself, Goad, and the doctor. End of CHAPTER XIII. CHAPTER XIX. OF THE SCALP-HUNTERS. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dion Jines, Sutlake City, Utah. THE SCALP-HUNTERS by Thomas Main Reid. CHAPTER XIX. THE SCALP-HUNTERS. It was still early in the evening when we reached the camp, the camp of the Scalp-Hunters. Our arrival was scarcely noticed. A single glance at us, as we rode in amongst the men, was all the recognition we received. No one rose from his seat or ceased his occupation. We were left to unsaddle our horses and dispose of them as best we might. I was worried with the ride, having been so long unused to the saddle. I blinked on the ground and sat down, resting my back against the stump of a tree. I could have slept, but the strangeness of everything around me excited my imagination, and with feelings of curiosity I looked and listened. I should call the pencil to my aid, to give you an idea of the scene, and that would but faintly illustrate it. A wilder and more picturesque Cudiel never impressed human vision. It reminded me of pictures I had seen representing the bivouacs of brigands under the dark pines of the abruzy. I paint from a recollection that looks back over many years of adventurous life. I can give only the more salient points of the picture. The petite tale is forgotten, although at that time the minutest objects were things new and strange to my eye, and each of them for a while fixed my attention. I afterwards grew familiar with them, and hence they are now in my memory, as a multitude of other things, indistinct from their very distinctness. The camp was in a band of the Del Norte, in a glade surrounded by tall cottonwoods whose smooth trunks rose vertically out of a thick underwood of palmettoes and Spanish bayonet. A few tattered tents stood in the open ground, and there were skin lodges after the Indian fashion. But most of the hunters had made their shelter with a buffalo robe, stretched upon four upright poles. There were layers among the underwood, constructed of branches, and thatched with the palm-mated leaves of the yacca, or with reeds brought from the adjacent river. There were paths leading out in different directions, marked by openings in the foliage. Through one of these a green meadow was visible. Mules and mustangs, picketed on long trail-ropes, were clustered over it. Through the camp were seen the saddles, bridles, and packs, resting upon stumps or hanging from the branches. Guns leaned against the trees, and rusted sabers hung suspended over the tents and lodges. Articles of camp furniture, such as pans, kettles, and axes, littered the ground in every direction. Log fires were burning. Around them sat clusters of men. They were not seeking warmth, for it was not cold. They were roasting ribs of venison or smoking old-fashioned pipes. Some were scouring their arms and accoutrements. The accents of many languages fell upon my ear. I heard snatches of French, Spanish, English, and Indian. The exclamations were in character with the appearance of those who uttered them. Hello, Dick, hang it, old Hoss, what are ye about? Carumbo. By the tarnal earthquake, vaya, ombre, vaya, carajo, by gosh, santissima Maria, sacre. It seemed as if the different nations had sent representatives to contest the supremacy of their chivaliths. I was struck with three groups. A particular language prevailed in each, and there was a homogenousness about the costumes of the men composing each. That narrowed me, conversed in the Spanish language. They were Mexicans. I will describe the dress of one, as I remember it. Calls and arrows of green velvet. These are cut after the fashion of sailor trousers, short waist, tight round the hips, and wide at the bottoms, where they are strengthened by black leather stamped and stitched ornamentally. The outer seams are split from hip to thigh, slashed with braid, and set with rows of silver castle tops. These seams are open, for the evening is warm, and underneath appear the calls and kilos of white muslin, hanging in white folds around the ankles. The boot is of calfskin, tanned, but not blackened. It is reddish, rounded at the toe, and carries a spur at least a pound in weight, with a rowel three inches in diameter. The spur is curiously fashioned and fastened to the boot, by straps of stamped leather, little bells, campanulas, hang from the teeth of the rowels, and tinkle at the slightest motion of the foot. Look upward. The calls and arrows are not braced, but fastened at the waist by a silken sash or scarf. It is scarlet. It is passed several times round the body, and made fast behind, where the fringed ends hang gracefully over the left hip. There is no waistcoat, a jacket of dark cloth embroidered and tightly fitting, short behind, a la greche, leaving the shirt to puff out over the scarf. The shirt itself, with its broad collar and flowered front, exhibits the triumphant skill of some dark-eyed poblama. While this is the broad-brimmed shadowy sombrero, a heavy hat of black glaze with its thick band of silver bullion. There are tags of the same metal stuck in the sides, giving it an appearance altogether unique. Over one shoulder is hanging, half folded, the picturesque sorope, a belt and pouch, an escapade upon which the hand is resting, a waist belt with a pair of small pistols stuck under it, a long Spanish knife suspended obliquely across the left hip, complete the to assembly of him whom I have chosen to describe. It may answer as a characteristic of the dress of many of his companions, those of the group that was nearest me. There was variety in their habiliments, yet the national costume of Mexico was traceable in all. Some wore leather calzaneros, with a spencer or jerkin of the same material. Some both at front and behind. Some carried, instead of the pictured, sorope, the blanket of the Navajos, with its broad black stripes. Suspended from the shoulders of others hung the beautiful and graceful manga. Some were moccasin, while a few of the inferior men wore the simple garache, the sandal of the Aztecs. The countenances of these men were swarith and savage looking, their hair long, straight and black as the wing of a crow. While both beard and moustache grew wildly over their faces, fierce dark eyes gleamed under the broad brims of their hats. Few of them were men of high stature, yet there was a lightness in their bodies that showed them to be capable of great activity. Their frames were well-knit and inert to fatigues and hardships. They were all or nearly all natives of the Mexican border, front tier men, who had often closed in deadly fight with the Indian foe. They were cibularos, vicaros, rancheros, monteros, men who in their frequent association with the mountain men, the gallic and sex and hunters, from the eastern plains, had acquired a degree of daring which by no means belongs to their own race. They were the chivalry of the Mexican frontier. They smoked cigarritas, rolling them between their fingers in husks of maize. They played monte on their spread blankets, staking their tobacco. They cursed and cried, Cajaro, when they lost, and thanks to the Santissimo Virgin, when the cards were pulled out in their favor. Their language was a Spanish patois. Their voices were sharp and disagreeable. At a short distance from these was the second group that attracted my attention. The individuals composing this were altogether different from the former. They were different in every essential point. In voice, dress, language, and physiognomy. There's was the Anglo-American face at a glance. These were the trappers, the prairie hunters, the mountain men. Let us again choose a type that may answer for a description of all. He stands leaning on his long straight rifle, looking into the fire. He is six feet in his moccasins, and of a build that suggests the idea of strength and sex and ancestry. His arms are like young oaks, and his hand, grasping the muzzle of his gun, is large, fleshless, and muscular. His cheek is broad and firm. It is partially covered by a bushy whisker that meets over the chin and fringes all around the lips. It is neither fair nor dark, but of a dull brown color, lighter around the mouth, where it has been bleached by the sun, and beer, and water. The eye is gray, or bluish gray, small and slightly crowed at the corner. It is well set, and rarely wanders. It seems to look into you, rather than at you. The hair is brown and of a medium length, cut no doubt on his last visit to the trading post or the settlements, and the complexion, although dark as that of a mulatto, is only so from tan. It was once fair, a blonde. The countenance is not unprepossessing. It might be styled handsome. Its whole expression is bold, but good-humored and generous. The dress of the individual described is of home manufacture, that is, of his home, the prairie and the wild mountain park, where the material has been bought by a bullet from his rifle. It is the work of his own hands, unless indeed he may be one who has shared his cabin with some Indian, Sue, Crow, or Cheyenne. It consists of a hunting-shirt of dressed deerskin, smoked to the softness of a glove, leggings reaching to the waist, and moccasins of the same material, the latter sold with the par-flush of the buffalo, the shirt is belted at the waist, but open at the breast and throat, where it falls back into a graceful cape just covering the shoulders, underneath is seen the undershirt of finer material, the dressed skin of the antelope, or the fawn of a thalo-deer. On his head is a raccoon cap, with the face of the animal looking to the front, while the barred tail hangs like a plume, drooping down to his left shoulder. His accoutrements are a bullet-pouch made from the undressed skin of the mountain cat, and a huge crescent-shaped horn upon which he has carved many a strange souvenir. His arms consist of a long knife, a bowie, and a heavy pistol, carefully secured by a holster to the leatheren belt around his waist, add to this a rifle nearly five feet long, taking ninety to the pound, and so straight that the line of the barrel scarcely deflects from that of the butt. But little attention has been paid to ornament in either his dress, arms, or equipments, and yet there is a gracefulness in the hang of his tunic-like shirt, a stylishness about the fringing of the cape and leggings, and a jauntiness in the set of that coon-skin cap that shows the wearer to be not altogether unmindful of his personal appearance. A small pouch or case, neatly embroidered with stained porcupine quills, hangs upon his breast. At intervals he contemplates this with a pleased and complacent look. It is his pipe-holder, a love token from some dark-eyed, dark-hair damsel, no doubt, like himself a denizen of the wild wilderness. Such is the toot ensemble of a mountain-trapper. There were many around him whom I have described almost similarly attired and equipped. Some wore slouch hats of grayish felt, and some cat-skin caps. Some had hunting shirts bleached to a brighter hue, and broodered with gayer colors. Others looked more tattered and patched and smoky, yet in the costume of all there was enough of character to enable you to class them. There was no possibility of mistaking the regular mountain man. The third group that attracted my attention was at a greater distance from the spot I occupied. I was filled with curiosity, not to say astonishment, on perceiving that they were Indians. Can they be prisoners, thought I? No, they are not bound. There are no signs of captivity either in their look or gestures, and yet they are Indians. Can they belong to the band fighting against? As I sat conjecturing a hunter passed near me. Who are these Indians, I asked, indicating the group? Delaware's. Some Shawnees. These then were the celebrated Delaware's. Descendants of that great tribe who, on the Atlantic shores, first gave battle to the pale-faced invader. There's had been a wonderful history. War their school, war their worship, war their pastime, war their profession. They are now but a remnant. Their story will soon be ended. I rose up and approached them with a feeling of interest. Some of them were sitting around the fire, smoking out of curiously carved pipes of the red claystone. Others strode back and forth with that majestic gate, for which the forest Indian has been so much celebrated. There was a silence among them that contrasted strangely with the gibbering kept up by their Mexican allies. An occasional question put in a deep-toned, sonorous voice, a short but emphatic reply, a guttural grunt, a dignified nod, a gesture with the hand, and thus they conversed as they filled their pipe-balls with the kinek and passed the valued instruments from one to another. I stood gazing upon these stoical sons of the forest with emotions stronger than curiosity, as one contemplates for the first time an object of which he has heard and read strange accounts. The history of their wars and their wanderings were fresh in my memory. Before me were the actors themselves, or types of them, in all their truthful reality, in all their wild picturesqueness. These were the men who, driven from their homes by the Atlantic border, yielded only to fate, to the destiny of their race. During the Appalachian range they had fought their way from home to home, down the steep sides of the Allegheny, along the wooded banks of the Ohio, into the heart of the bloody ground. Still the pale face followed on their track and drove them onward, onward towards the setting sun. Red wars, punic faith, broken treaties, year after year, thinned their ranks. Still, disdaining to live near their white conquerors, they pushed on, fighting their way through tribes of their own race and color, thrice their numbers. The forks of the Osage became their latest resting place. Here the usurper promised to guarantee them a home, to be theirs to all time. The concession came too late. War and wandering had grown to be part of their natures, and with a scornful pride they disdained the peaceful tillage of the soil. The remnant of their tribe was collected on the Osage, but in one season it had disappeared. The braves and young men wandered away, leaving only the old, the women, and the worthless in their allotted home. Where have they gone? Where are they now? He who would find the Delaware's must seek them on the broad prairies, in the mountain parks, in the haunts of the bear and the beaver, the bighorn and the buffalo. There he may find them in scattered bands, pegged with their ancient enemy the whites, or alone, trapping, hunting, fighting the Utah or Ropahoe, the Crow or Cheyenne, the Navajo, and the Apache. I stood gazing upon the group with feelings of profound interest, upon their features and their picturesque habillaments. Though no two of them were dressed exactly alike, there was a similarity about the dress of all. Most of them wore hunting shirts, not made of deerskin, like those of the whites, but of calico, printed in bright patterns. This dress, handsomely fashioned and fringed under the accoutrements of the Indian warrior, presented a striking appearance. But that which chiefly distinguished the costumes of both the Delaware and Shawano, from that of their white allies, was the head-dress. This was, in fact, a turban, formed by binding the head with a scarf or kerchief of a brilliant color, such as may be seen on the dark creoles of Haiti. In the group before me no two of these turbans were alike, yet they were all of a similar character. The finest were those made by the checkered kerchiefs of Madras. Plumes surmounted them of colored feathers from the wing of the war eagle, or the blue plumage of the Gruya. For the rest of their costume they wore deerskin leggings and moccasins nearly similar to those of the trappers. The leggings of some were ornamented by scalp locks along the outer seam, exhibiting a dark history of the wearer's prowess. I noticed that their moccasins were peculiar, differing altogether from those worn by the Indians of the prairies. They were seamed up the fronts without braiding or ornament and gathered into a double row of plates. The arms and equipments of these warrior men were like those of the white hunters. They have long since discarded the bow, and in the management of the rifle most of them can draw a bead and hit plum center with any of their mountain associates. In addition to the firelock and knife I noticed that they still carried the ancient weapon of their race, the fearful tomahawk. I have described three characteristic groups that struck me on glancing over the campground. There were individuals belonging to neither and others partaking of the character of one or all. There were Frenchmen, Canadian voyagers, strays of the Northwest Company, wearing white capotes and chatting, dancing, and singing their boat songs with all the esprit of their race. There were pueblos, indios monzos, clad in their ungraceful tomas, and rather serving than associating with those around them. There were mulattoes, too, and negroes of a jetty blackness from the plantations of Louisiana, who had exchanged for this free roving life the twisted cowskin of the overseer. There were tattered uniforms showing the deserters who had wandered from some frontier post into this remote region. There were canicas from the sandwich aisles who had crossed the deserts from California. There were men, apparently, of every hue and climb and tongue here assembled, drawn together by the accidents of life, by the instinct of adventure. All more or less strange individuals of the strangest band it has ever been my lot to witness. The band of the scalp-hunters.